Storm
by Bainaku
Summary: Roy comes to visit Riza for encouragement after a bad day at work, and things go happily from there. Warning: frisky business.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. Someone else does, and they are very rich.

**Rating: NC-17**

**Warning: **This story has sex in it. Hurray! Are you under eighteen years old? A massive prude? If you answered yes to either of those questions, you probably shouldn't read any more of this.

I don't think what I've written here is extremely explicit in that I've certainly seen worse. However, if there are very many protests, I will definitely take it down. My goal here isn't to offend anyone.

**Author's Notes: **I can write straight people, see? But seriously, y'all, I love this pairing and I hope I do them some vague sort of justice. Let me know if you don't think so—or if you _do _think so. Either way, as always, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**STORM**

He comes to her in the night.

She opens her door and finds him waiting there. She is not ready, her hair still wet from her shower, the dishes in the sink unwashed. Uncaring, unseeing, he pushes past her and crosses the threshold of her home. Her small dog makes a sound of inquiry from the mouth of the hallway. Because the dog knows this man and his character, however, he neither attacks him nor heralds his arrival with a volley of barks. Instead he watches him stumble to his mistress's table.

She closes the door quietly and turns to follow him. When she reaches him, one hand hovers in the air above his rumpled shoulder. He has come in a hurry through the rain, she can see; his coat is wet, his short hair plastered to his sunburned scalp. Its red blistering glint through the dark bristle of his crew cut is too much for Riza Hawkeye to look at, so she averts her eyes and stares at the surface of the table instead.

For a moment, they are quiet.

When she shifts her eyes to him again, he has taken a chair and his gaze captures hers. He notices her hand somehow and reaches to take it. The silhouettes of their fingers make shadow-puppets limbo across the table.

"Your gloves are wet," she tells him. "You should have stayed inside, Colonel."

"I'm inside now," he chides her. His eyes are smiling and his mouth is trying to follow suit, but it's been a long time and he's having trouble with it. Tugging her hand, he draws her closer to him. She shifts willingly forward: one step, two, and on the third he rises from the chair and they are front to front. He's wet and she is too, and neither of them care.

He puts the thumb of his free hand into his mouth and uses his teeth to jerk off his glove. Seconds later his naked hand is in her hair, the brunt of his palm tracing her cheek. His nails grate over her ear and she bares her teeth instinctively: but only to lean in to kiss him. Against her mouth, she finally feels him smile.

They kiss hard. So hard! There is power in his mouth and their teeth click, and she hooks her fingers like claws in his coat and drags him down against her as far as she is able. The buttons on his uniform press between her breasts like wet coins; a moment later, her fingernails clink over them, forcing them away again, tearing the jacket open. She splays her fingers over the tunic beneath the jacket and relishes in the heat of him, in the quickening throb of his heart under her lifeline.

They pull back from their kiss but not from one another, Riza panting, Mustang with his jaw clenched in a growl that makes the hair on the back of her neck hackle. He's smiling again now, really smiling, a devilish half-smirk that makes the darkness in the room jealous. His hands work over her. Somehow he's gotten off the other glove too, and his roughened palms fold over her hips, fingertips tracing the globes of her buttocks in a sinful staccato that makes her bite her lower lip and try to wriggle closer.

He turns them. The motion, liquid and slow, reminds her of the sway-swing steps of a waltz. His fingers tighten, sliding back in a teasing grope that sends Riza's breath from her in a hiss of painful desire. The hiss ratchets up into a murmur of surprise when he lifts her, but then again, she has always known peripherally that Mustang's strength far surpasses mere mental capacity.

He lowers her onto the table's surface and slips to her, one of his arms sliding up her spine to crush her close to him again. The need in his embrace makes his arm quiver and her face burn, and her fingers clutch at him, trembling. She knows this thing about to happen between them may just be once, and she can sense in him the same dawning realization. He hesitates, brief and terrible—but still, he does not stop.

His head drops and she can smell the rain in his hair as he lathes his tongue over her throat, licking at the droplets still left from her shower. His fingers shift her hair aside, rendering that pale column nude and vulnerable. His teeth scrape and shudder and nibble down its perfection until Riza's breaths are more like moans and her legs have tightened into a vice around his hips. She can feel—intimately—that he minds neither of those things.

His palm slides between the folds of her robe. He doesn't ask, but he doesn't need to because Riza arches to him, filling his fingers with her breast. His immediate knead of the soft globe makes her impatient and, in a moment of impertinence, she seizes the hem of his tunic and pulls it up. She can't be sure, but she thinks she hears him chuckle as she peels it from his soaked flesh and sends it sailing toward her sink. It lands in the basin with a wet smack and she looks over at it, then up at him again, her hand worrying over his skin between them. Her thumb smoothes the line in the center of his chest.

They study one another, solemn suddenly. His dark gaze fills her world.

"Lieutenant," he husks. He makes to draw back, the fearful promise in his eyes that he will hurt her someday. He knows that this between them now will only make it worse when the time comes that her protection isn't enough for him—when the hammer falls and Amestris leaves Roy Mustang dead.

"No." The word comes out like a snarl. Riza hooks her ankles behind his back, showing him the white flash of her teeth for the second time this rainy night, and drops her hand to grasp him where it matters. Her robe falls away from her shoulders as she surges up to him to kiss him once more, harder than the first time. She is angry, so angry, that Mustang seems to think he will die and leave her very far behind.

After a moment, he understands and relents, easing back to her until they brush all the way down. She gentles her kiss in turn, running the tip of her tongue over his lower lip to soothe the sting of her fury. He caresses her cheek and pulls her into a lock of mouths much deeper, and in the heated, grinding suction of their kiss, Riza knows he forgives her, trusts her, and will shamelessly take her into death with him.

All the more reason not to fear death. Or so the lieutenant believes, especially when Mustang finds her breast again and rolls the peak between his fingers.

She thumbs open one button on his trousers, making little growling noises of frustration and anticipation in her clumsy dealings with the second. Their embrace seems to go on as long as their lives ever have, and by the time they have both surfaced for air, her robe is in the sink with his shirt—he always did have a good arm—and she's gotten everything of his off that's important.

She licks the fingers and palm of one hand before curling them over him in a guiding clasp. He follows her now, his jaw clenched in admiration, his face thrust to her temple. Rolling her hips up into his hands, she slides over him until her breasts press flat to his chest and her collar hitches in tiny, jerking pants of effort.

The weight of his wrists to her hips stops her. They hold together, Riza trembling because she is new at this, Mustang with his hands furled over buttock and hip, waiting. She inhales the scent of his hair, the storm from before and the flames within him, and when she feels that she is ready, she wraps her arms around him and whispers into the throbbing pulse of his throat, "Colonel." It's one of the only things she's ever asked of him.

Mustang lifts her the last bit to him in a jerking thrust, and Riza sobs into his throat, digging her heels into his back such that he doesn't dare think to stop. They rock together, slowly at first and imperfect too, but somewhere along the line Mustang realizes that the lieutenant doesn't mind playing with fire, doesn't mind getting burned, and he clenches his fingers in her flesh hard enough to turn it white and drives himself to her so deeply, so desperately, that Riza sinks her teeth into his shoulder to muffle her scream. They finish together, fierce and white-hot and sudden, and he brushes his lips to her brow and breathes her name when it is done, a lull under the drumming drone of the rain.

The electricity flickers and snaps out, but they don't need it to find one another again, and again, and again. Their next time is slower, something almost like awe; their third, Riza slips away from him and draws him, his hand in hers, back to her bedroom. They spend hours there by candlelight and lovemaking alone, heedless of their conflict for once, their hands full of nothing but one another.

At the gunmetal-hued dawn, she helps him dress and walks with him, their twined footsteps secretive, down the halls to the deserted side exit of her building. She does not kiss him again—no, not here, where anyone else could see. He drifts away from her salute into the hazy fog of Central's newest morning, her last glimpse of him a dark, diminishing smudge.

The next night it rains, she goes to him.


End file.
